‘Later, when she was adult and her father had died, she moved from Wealdsham and that’s the last time our informant saw her or heard about her. She says that in her opinion Gertrude was never really normal, especially after the acid incident. She didn’t make friends, except for West, and this wasn’t for lack of other people trying to be friendly. She seemed just incapable of making them.’
‘Poor devil,’ said Cullon.
‘That’s it, then. By the way, what’s the temperature?’
‘It was thirty-five at midday, according to one bloke: that’s ninety-five on an honest scale. Must be nice on the beach, provided you don’t get sunburned.’
Rifle swore.
It was barely eight o’clock, yet already the morning sun was so strong that even with the windows of the car wound right down and the ventilators fully open, they were still hot. Cullon looked at the chain of mountains thrusting their crests up into the cloudless sky. ‘If ever I get half a chance, I’m going to bring Tina out here for a holiday.’
‘When you come, you must see us,’ said Alvarez.
Cullon wanted to say that in the short time they’d known each other he’d come to like Alvarez so much that it was impossible to imagine not looking him up as soon as possible, but being an Englishman he contented himself with: ‘That would be wonderful.’
They turned on to the Playa Nueva/Palma road. ‘When are you going to arrest West?’ Cullon asked.
‘I am not certain. But since he cannot leave the island, there is no hurry.’
‘Is there ever any hurry here?’
Alvarez smiled. ‘Not unless you come from Madrid. Perhaps that is why so many of us live to be old.’
‘I reckon the only people likely to live to be old are the ones who keep off the roads,’ said Cullon as, in the middle of the road, they breasted a rise to come face to face with a Renault also in the middle.
‘Some drivers do have a very poor road sense,’ agreed Alvarez, as he flicked the wheel to the right and the two cars just missed each other. He sighed, looked briefly at Cullon, sighed again. ‘Tim, I wonder, have you . . .’ He stopped.
‘Have I what?’
‘Thought about West’s alibi?’
‘What’s there to think about? He hasn’t got one.’
‘Why did he ask his fiancee to give him one?’
‘Well, no one else was going to, that’s for sure.’
‘But even he, as selfish as he is, must understand what kind of a woman she is.’
Cullon said lightly: ‘Something tells me we’re back to those soft, soulful eyes!’
‘She’s a warm, caring person and above all, honest. All the things he is not. Which must be why he is so attracted to her.’
‘You’re pinching the plot of half the stories in the hags’
mags. Rake attracted to virgin, hoping to be reformed by virtue. Life just doesn’t work that way. Either he drags her down to his level or she turns out to be frigid.’
‘What I really wish to say is this. Surely he must have realized that she would not be capable of lying convincingly?’
‘Hold it. You’re drawing some very wrong conclusions. When I was a bachelor, I met more than one young woman who was warm and caring and pure, for all I could ever discover, and they could all lie like troopers.’
‘But do you not understand? When the Señora understood he was suspected of murder, it had to be inevitable that she could no longer lie convincingly: probably that she would refuse to lie at all.’
‘You could be right, but if so it just goes to prove that a bloke who’s rotten to the core can make bad misjudgements about people who aren’t.’
‘But West is clever enough to realize and allow for that. So why did he made the bad misjudgement?’
Cullon shrugged his shoulders.
‘Was it not because he panicked?’
‘Possibly. He’d cause enough to panic with us breathing down his neck.’
‘But if he had carefully planned the murder, as he so carefully planned the murder of his wife, he would have foreseen right from the beginning that he would need an alibi. So the fact that he panicked surely must suggest that he did not plan?’
‘It means that he made a mistake—and if villains never did that, we’d hardly arrest one. How much more proof of the murder d’you need? The method was exactly the same, no one else had a motive but he had a hell of a one, his alibi’s busted wide, the suicide note was typed on his machine, there wasn’t a similar plastic bag in her house but there was one in his car, he’d recently had an almighty row with her . . . Even the stupidest juryman would convict without retiring.’
Alvarez said hesitantly: ‘But what about the broken cazuela in her bedroom?’
‘You know, I’d a feeling we might be working round to that again.’
‘Why did she have a clean cooking cazuela in her bedroom?’
Cullon didn’t try to answer. Alvarez concentrated on driving sufficiently fast to prevent the car behind from overtaking.
CHAPTER 21
The train drew into Petercross station and Cullon picked up his overnight case, a small parcel, and his mackintosh, and climbed down on to the platform. It was drizzling and there was no overhead canopy at this point and he hurriedly pulled on his mackintosh. It was difficult to appreciate that little more than five and a half hours earlier he’d been sweating in blazing sunshine.
Together with the other passengers who’d disembarked, he climbed the concrete stairs up to the booking hall which straddled the lines. He handed in his ticket, turned to the right and saw Tina a second before she hugged him.
They crossed to the stairs leading down to the car park. ‘You’re as brown as a berry and looking all relaxed,’ she said. ‘The holiday’s obviously done you a power of good.’
‘Holiday? Do you mind? I’ve been having to work all the hours God made.’
‘Then how come you got so brown in the sun?’
He laughed. ‘Strictly between you and me, maybe I did manage a little time off . . . Tina, it’s a beautiful island. Forget all those stories about concrete jungles: if you know where to go, it’s fantastic! I’ve sworn a blood oath that you and I are going out there together just as soon as old Banger gives me the time off he promised.’
‘This is one oath I’m going to see you keep, come hell or high water . . . Tell me, how did the work go?’
‘I got the case sorted out in the end. And Enrique—he’s the local split I was working with—was a wonderful bloke, even if he didn’t have a clue about what he was supposed to be doing.’
‘He didn’t?’
‘Without a word of exaggeration, from beginning to end I had to lead him by the hand and show him what to do and how to do it.’
‘I hope you were tactful about it all?’
‘You know me.’
‘That’s why I’m asking.’
‘I was tact personified. He’d no idea I was gently prodding him along. And I left everything so he can claim all the credit. If he lives long enough.’
‘Why on earth d’you say that?’
‘Every time he gets behind the wheel of a car, the accident statistics come alive.’
At the foot of the stairs, they crossed a small lobby and then went out on to the pavement. The car park faced them. ‘The car’s right over on the other side,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t park any nearer than that.’
They walked through the drizzle to the car and she handed him the keys. He settled behind the wheel, yawned, then yawned again, even more heavily.
‘Are you worn right out with all that travelling?’ she asked solicitously.
‘It’s not really that. The thing is, the seats in the plane were squashed so closely together my knees were almost up to my chin and I just couldn’t get my usual siesta.’
She stared at him with wide-eyed amazement.
They sat in the second room, which acted as both dining-room and family sitting-room. From the kitchen came the sound of a c
lock striking the hour. ‘I suppose Tim must be back by now,’ said Alvarez.
Dolores was crocheting the first of two bedspreads which Isabel, in accordance with tradition, would take to her nuptial home. She briefly looked up. ‘I liked Tim a lot, but . . .’
‘But what?’
Her fingers plied crochet hook and yarn. ‘It’s just that he sometimes seemed . . . Well, I couldn’t help getting the impression that he was being condescending.’
‘Condescending about what? You don’t mean your cooking, do you? When he said he’d never eaten anything like it before, he was being really complimentary, not . . .’
‘I’m not talking about my cooking. He could have criticized that as much as he liked.’
He did not challenge that obvious lie.
‘Enrique, he was being condescending towards you in your job.’
‘D’you really reckon so? . . . I suppose, if you think about it, he’s entitled to be like that. After all, I haven’t had a tenth of his experience.’
‘That doesn’t matter. You’re every bit as clever as him and he’d no right to laugh at you.’
‘You’re imagining things.’
‘I am not. Was he so very clever?’ she asked challengingly.
He spoke thoughtfully. ‘He certainly was quick and efficient. But sometimes he wouldn’t allow himself enough time to sit down and think . . . And that’s why I reckon that in the end he was wrong.’
‘Did you tell him that?’
‘I tried to, but he couldn’t seem to understand what I was getting at.’
‘Then you let him go away from here certain he’s so much cleverer than you, when he just isn’t?’
‘I couldn’t tell him straight out he was wrong, could I? After all, he was our guest.’
She did not pursue the matter. Even in her most imperious mood, she would never dream of flouting the laws of hospitality.
There was a silence, which he broke. ‘I suppose I’d better make a move.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ he answered vaguely.
Once seated in his car, he did not immediately start the engine. He’d said to Cullon that he didn’t really understand the meaning of justice. Cullon had clearly never suffered such a problem: for him, justice was the identification, arrest, conviction, and punishment, of the guilty. But how could one always be certain what was guilt? Guilt was fashioned by the current sense of morality and defined by man-made laws: morals altered not only throughout the ages, but also according to one’s own viewpoint, and man could legislate wisely or stupidly . . . Who could ever convincingly answer the question, Did the starving man who took a crust of bread commit theft?
He sighed. If only Cullon had been less certain, they could have talked over the problem: but Cullon had been unable ever to see that there might be a problem.
He finally started the engine and drove away, to leave the village over the torrente. At the cross-roads he went straight over, to continue on to Ca’n Absel and as he approached the house, West stepped out on to the patio. Was West guilty or innocent of Gertrude Dean’s death? It all depended on how you defined guilt.
West’s face was drawn and, despite the suntan, there were dark bags under his eyes, suggesting worry and a sleepless night: the scarring on his right cheek was unusually pronounced. ‘Where’s the other bloke?’
‘Señor Cullon? He has returned to England: I drove him to the airport earlier on.’
‘I call that good riddance.’
Alvarez brought a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his face. ‘Could we move into the shade before I ask a few questions?’
‘More? Christ, d’you get paid by the score? Why don’t you start asking intelligent questions, like what really happened when Gertie died?’
‘As to that, I believe I now know.’
West, his expression strained, stared at him for several seconds, then abruptly he turned and led the way across to the patio chairs. He slammed his clenched fist down on the table. ‘Well? What d’you know?’
Alvarez sat, then said gravely: ‘Why did you tell Señora Rassaud you were going out on the Monday night the señorita died, when you knew you were to stay in your house?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? I didn’t want Rosalie here.’
‘Why not?’
West finally sat. ‘Do I have to spell everything out? It was because Gertie had said she was coming to see me here . . . And then she never bloody well turned up.’
‘You still have not explained why you did not wish the two ladies to meet? After all, they were friends.’
‘Not by then.’
‘According to señor Meade they were still friends, if not as friendly as they had once been.’
‘Forget what he says. When he’s sober he’s a liar, when he’s drunk he’ll swear blind he’s got four heads.’
‘The Señora has herself said she was still friendly with the señorita.’
‘We’re just not on the same wavelength, are we? To begin with, they liked each other right enough, but Gertie was the possessive kind: if she was friendly with you, you mustn’t become as friendly with anyone else. When Rosalie and I got engaged, Gertie became ridiculously jealous and kept creating scenes.’
‘Was not your real reason for keeping them apart the fact that you did not want the señora to hear the señorita say that you had murdered your wife?’
‘I didn’t murder Babs. How many more times do I have to goddamn well say that?’
‘When you were young, you lived in the same town as the señorita. You were with her when your face became scarred. Which of you suggested going into the locked room?’
‘She did.’
‘This time, the truth.’
West hesitated. ‘I can’t remember. It’s a hell of a long time ago.’
‘It surely was you who made the suggestion?’
‘I . . . Well, maybe I could have done.’
‘Who picked up the bowl of acid?’
‘She did.’
‘Why can you still not understand? The time for lying is over, unless you wish to be convicted of the señorita’s murder . . . It was you who picked up the bowl, was it not?’
West said sullenly: ‘What if it was?’
‘You spilled the acid over yourself. Yet you told everyone it was her fault.’
‘That was a joke.’
‘You can call it a joke?’
‘I didn’t know she was going to take it so seriously.’
‘Just how seriously did she take it?’
‘What are you getting at now?’
‘I am trying to understand how she felt, because if I can understand that I think I shall know what really happened when she died . . . Did she feel guilty for the injuries she believed she had caused you? So guilty that she was convinced she owed you a debt which could never be repaid?’
West didn’t answer.
‘And when she grew old enough to realize that she could not be held responsible by anyone, least of all herself, for what she thought she had done when young, what happened then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What happened?’ demanded Alvarez angrily.
‘She . . . she just used to hang around.’
‘Because her sense of guilt had become a need to serve, which in turn had become love?’
‘Goddamn it, I wouldn’t know.’
‘A man like you would always know. And take advantage of his knowledge . . . You left the neighbourhood. When did you next see her?’
West shrugged his shoulders.
‘I have told you, I believe the truth will help you—but I cannot know the truth about señorita Dean’s death until I know the truth about her life. When did you next see her?’
‘I can’t give you chapter and verse,’ he said sullenly. ‘It was when she’d begun to paint for a living.’
‘Where was she living at that time?’
‘In a flat on the outskirts of Wealdsham.’
&nb
sp; ‘And you began to live with her?’
‘What if I did? She was over the age of consent.’
‘But not beyond the age of dreams. She had loved you and now she believed that you must love her because you were living with her. So what do you imagine she believed when you left her?’
‘I’ve . . . I’ve no idea.’
‘You have a very good idea. Did you see her again before you married?’
‘No.’
‘Did you tell her you were married. Or did you leave her to learn this from someone else?’
‘I suppose she must have heard it from someone else.’
‘Did the news upset her?’
‘I wasn’t there, so I can’t tell, can I?’
‘Perhaps, since she could be certain you had not married for love, she was not as upset as she might have been.’
West flushed.
‘What was the acid in?’
For a moment, he was confused by the reference to what they had been discussing earlier. Then he said: ‘That all happened nearly thirty years back. I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘Was it in an earthenware dish?’
‘In case you weren’t listening, I’ve just said, I can’t remember.’
T think it must have been . . . When did she learn that it was not she who was responsible for scarring you and giving you such pain? It was yourself.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It was very shortly before she died, was it not? And that was when for the very first time, she could see you as the person you really are: someone incapable of being concerned with anyone but himself. And the moment she could understand that, she could also understand that you must have murdered your wife and then tricked her into giving you the alibi which enabled you to escape arrest.’
‘I didn’t kill Babs,’ West shouted. He again slammed a clenched fist down on the table.
Deadly Petard Page 14